For all the Christys

This summer, I’ve been spending some time reading books, watching movies, and visiting sites that have connection to American history.  I’m teaching a history class this fall and am trying to  use this time to get a bit into a historical mindset.  I have a renewed appreciation for the signer of the Declaration of Independence, a greater respect for our country’s first leaders, a rediscovered gratitude for the independence we have as a nation. 

But then I wonder: how much has that American independent spirit permeated the way I live out my faith? If I’m honest, I know that it has affected me far more than I would like to admit.  I’d rather be my own person, be authentic, than blend in with the group of believers beside me.  I can quickly fall prey to the lie that I can do it just fine on my own. 

But I know I can’t.

Did Jesus teach individuality?  Not really.  He told us to follow.  He modeled what it was like to live close to people. 

A few months ago, some of us from church got together for a game night.  It was a fun evening with lots of snacks to eat and many laughs to share.  I needed to laugh.  I had been wrestling through some things of my own the week prior to this.  I was depressed about my station in life – playing pity party for all the difficulties of being a single woman in 2014.  I needed to step away from that and just have fun.

A rowdy Dutch Blitz game broke out, and being a sucker for this sort of competition, I had to join.  There was lots of slamming cards on the table, yelling at opponents, and high-fiving teammates.  We were having a high old time.

And then I had this mini-epiphany.  I looked across the table at Christy, an 18-year old fine young lady who has been in my English classes for the past three years.  I like her.  A lot.  And suddenly the thought hit me: I need to be faithful in walking with Christ through this season of singleness because of Christy.  Because Christy is watching me.  Because Christy is only one of many young girls who are watching.  

Because many other women of faith have done it for me, are doing it for me.  Leaving an example, that is.  Being brave enough to live life close to others.  Showing me what it looks like to follow Christ through different stages of life.

Sometimes, that means throwing off the American spirit of independence and becoming more Biblically interdependent.  I want to do that.  For all the Christys out there.  

One Foggy Day

I woke up to fog this morning.

I groaned a bit when I looked out the window.  See, today was my personal retreat day.  Yes, I am fortunate enough to work for an organization that sees the value of solitude and gives each teacher one day off to commit to it.  And I was going to climb a mountain.  The skies were supossed to be blue and warm breezes were going to sweep across my sun-kissed face as I gazed out over the landscape and marveled at how much everything, both externally and internally, was perfectly in place.  Was peaceful. 

But the fog ruined my plan. 

Ironically, I've been facing some things that have me feeling conflicted, confused, torn.  I've often described this feeling in my journal as a fog.  I wish it would go away.  And sometimes, it does, and a gentle peace replaces it.  But then, it returns. 

This morning, I decide against the mountain climb and choose to hike the river trail instead.  All the way up, I drive in and out of fog.  I round a corner and come face-to-face with a blast of foggy white.  A few bends later, it vanishes.  The road dips, swells, and again I find myself amongst the dense white.  This continues the whole way.  In-and-out.  Round-and-round.  Up-and-down.

I moan because it feels so familiar.  So much like my life right now.  Where I find peace and clarity one day and uncertainty the next.  This in-and-out stuff has been confusing to me.  I feel conflicted--how can I be sure that I'm following the path God has brought about for me when it often feels so...foggy?

And then the thought begins to form: Fog requires faith.

For me to stop my car on a foggy bend in the road would not only be dangerous for me but would also pose a huge hazard for others.  Worse yet, what if I would react to the fog by whipping my car around and racing in the opposite direction?  Hazardous and stupid.  The best thing I can do is slow down, open my eyes wide, follow the yellow line, and keep moving.  Keep traveling the road God has led me on.

Because at some point, around some curve, the fog will break.    Afterall, the road is the same, it's simply the atmosphere that has changed. 

But it takes faith to remember that and continue in courage.  It takes faith to remember that this is the same road that seemed so clear and peaceful around the last bend.  It takes faith to remember that the One who cleared the skies is also navigating the fog with me.

So, in my car, I forge on.  I make it to my destination -- the river, a place low enough to escape the fog.

And in turn, in my life, I press on.  Rather than resist the fog, I choose to let God use it to cultivate the faith it requires.

And I pray that when the fog does lift, that the blue skies will shine down on a heart that has learned a little more of what it means to follow. 

Putting an IS between an R and a K

I inch my way across the platform which stands 10 meters above the surface of the water, my toes feeling the edge.  I look down, inhaling.  Deeply.  I pause, wondering if the risk is too great.  I muster up every ounce of courage within and take one small step that sends me spiraling downward, downward, downward into the clear blue.  I come up for air, water bubbling around me.  I shake my head to rid myself of the adrenaline and let out a call reminiscent of an Indian victory chant.  I feel untouchable, for I have conquered the jump. 

That was twelve years ago.  When a dare was something to be taken, when a risk greatly raised excitement levels.  When I longed to forge boldly into the unknown, just to see what could be found. 

While I still love a great adrenaline rush, I am not quite the risk-taker I once was.  Caution has replaced some of the daring within me, responsibility sometimes overrides risk. 

But I never want to live my life void of risk. 

I heard Ravi Zacharias throw out a closing quote in one of his sermons this summer that has been mulling around in my head since I heard it. He was speaking to a group of young adults and strongly encouraging (a stronger verb would work better, but I can’t think of one) them to put “all of their eggs in one basket” when it comes to who you trust, the Savior of the world, and how you live out your life with those around you.  His final words were those that stuck with me:  “The greatest of human gifts are set to work only when people are prepared to risk everything.” 

So risking brings about the things that are valuable, huh?  Think about what you consider valuable.  Was getting that thing of great value a risk? Is keeping it a risk?  I think of the parable of the pearl of great price, or the man who finds a field, or even the risk the father took on the prodigal son.  As I ponder what I count valuable, I find that each item certainly holds its own risk. 

And then I think of this: Christ risked it all for the plan of redemption. 

So, could we say that we are being like Christ when we take risks? 

I’m not talking about high dives and bungee jumping here (although some could argue that there’s something there, who knows?), but what about taking a financial risk to help another in need?  Or risking your reputation to follow a seemingly odd dream that God placed in your heart.  Or risking hurt by allowing hope to stay alive in an unmet desire.  Or, what I think can be the hardest of all, risking rejection and pain by opening your heart in relationship with those around you. 

You name it, if it is valuable, it is risky. 

A few months ago I planned to take my crew of 8^th and 9^th graders to Tallulah Gorge State Park.  We signed our lives away on these scary little yellow slips that acknowledged that we knew the risks of hiking on a gorge floor.  Every motherly instinct within me flew to the surface as I saw the rocky path that zig-zagged across raging waters.  I was ready to turn the whole crew around; it looked way too risky.  But with promises of help from the dads that were on the trip and 15 pleading sets of eyes, we went on.  We helped each other over slippery rocks, we scrambled up rock ledges, and we held tightly to outstretched hands that helped us stay on the tiny path right beside the river. 

And we had So. Much. Fun. 

Was it safe?  Not always.  Was it risky?  Certainly, (but so is driving your car).  Was it fun?  Absolutely.   Will we soon forget it?  Not a chance. 

So where in my life might God be asking me to take a risk?  Where might He be asking you to risk it all? 

I’m pretty sure we’d be better for answering that call. 

Adolescents vs. Egg Shells

Yesterday I did something extraordinary.  I used an oven.

I love to cook.  I really do.  But I rarely do it.   Dinner most nights consists of whatever I feel like throwing into a frying pan.  It’s always ready in 5ish minutes.  It’s always edible, but only occasionally delicious.  I always give Ms. Roommate a fair warning before she picks up a fork to sample. 

But going to a potluck requires one to reach beyond the frying pan.  So I pulled out the recipe book, rolled up my sleeves, and got to work.

I was two minutes into my project when I felt myself calming from the inside out.  Flour was flying, eggshells piling up in the strangest of places; the kitchen was beginning to resemble a classroom after an art class. 

But while the room was cluttering, something inside of me was straightening.  While the mixer whirred, my anxiousness settled.  “This is therapy,” I thought to myself. 

How can holding a spoon stir something so deeply within me?  Follow my thought pattern here…

When you cook, you know that if you follow the recipe, you will get the product you’re aiming for.  More or less, at least.  When you separate an egg and beat the white, it will stiffen.  When you add flour to hot milk, it will thicken.  When you forget your cake in the oven for three hours, it will burn.  When you mix butter, sugar, flour, and a few other necessary items together, you will get cookies.

Kinda nice to have a place to retreat to where formulas work.  Where an outcome is known and expected.  Where if you do X to Y, you will get Z. 

It kinda seems like most things in life don’t work in such a predictable fashion.  Yes, there are some laws, some formulas (sowing and reaping, for one), but mostly working with people, ourselves included, reminds us that there are not always formulaic solutions.  A pep talk may inspire one and infuriate another.  Sometimes we need a call-out; other times we need an extra dose of friendship. 

In her song “Fireflies and Songs,” Sara Groves asks this question: “Were you surprised our hearts were not like ticking clocks, with faces and hands easy to read?”  I’ve often thought about that line.  About how we truly are not creatures of predictable formulas.  About how we are wired to be relational, for we were made in the image of a relational Being.  About how the ultimate revelation of Truth was revealed in the person of Jesus Christ.  Not in a formula, or a three-step process, but in a relationship. 

Goodness, we all know those things called relationships can get sticky.  The can cut long and wound deep.  And even after all of our love, care, and guidance, those we invest in ultimately have to make decisions for themselves. 

But oh, how rich they can be.  How much wealth we can acquire from them.  How something can resound deeply within us, whispering “for this fellowship, we were made.” 

So, I choose the friend over the formula in my relationships.  I choose the adolescent over the egg shell in my career.  And I choose to pursue a relationship with my Father rathern than demanding that He reveals the whole picture in my faith. 

And every once in awhile, I’ll pull out the old mixer to satisfy the need for a formula within me. 

My house. My home. My heart.

I went to Thailand last month. 

Thailand.  The land with the sultry air and heavy clouds.  The land of curry and spice. 

The land so far away and yet so close to me. 

You see, Thailand is the land that captured my heart.  Nearly ten years ago, I changed my address to Chiang Mai, Thailand, and kept it that way for almost four years.  My experiences during those four years withing its borders expanded my view of God, of myself, and of the world around me.

And this summer, after five years of separation, I was reunited with this old friend. 

Since I've been home, everyone has been asking me how my trip was.  It's a tough question to answer.  Because it was great, incredible, refreshing, rejuvenating, and any and all other positive adjectives you'd like to insert.  Mostly though, it just felt like going home.  To the familiar that I had just left behind.  My heart beat strong and clear.  Something felt right.  Like I was in my house.  At my home.  Near my heart. 

This feeling might have brought out the cheesy side of me.

Visiting all the old haunts with all kinds of great people.

Sailing rivers (like two hi-so sailors) with yum food.

Hugs from all grown up kids.

Food so yummy I couldn't stop eating.

Reconnecting with far-away sister-friends.

The whole experience was so good.  And yet so hard.  I was so hit by the darkness of the culture, the discrepancy between the rich and the poor (with me included in the rich segment), the sexual sin that seems to have risen in prevalence, the utter lostness of the land.  Even in the eyes of close friends, I saw hurt, raw pain.  I saw blatant examples of how the enemy is seeking to destroy. 

I wanted to fix it.  I wished to alleviate their pain, to change the situation.  But I couldn't.  I felt panicky with only having two weeks. 

And that's when I knew I had to trust that there is One who loves this land far more than I.  One who loves these souls far above what I can even comprehend.  One who truly does reside in Thailand.  One who rightfully calls it His house, His home, His heart. 

Flying back to the land in which He has me now was hard, but it was peaceful.  In my heart I know that this is where He has me right now.  This is where He has asked me to faithfully serve Him, and He now calls me to intercede on behalf of those in that far-off land I love. 

For my Father really does have the whole world in His hands. 



Decade the Third.

I turn 30 next month.  Three-zero.  I leave behind my identity as a twenty-something and take my first step into the next decade. 

I was in high school when my oldest sister hit the 30 mark.  I ragged her about being old as mold and was pretty sure that she should be putting her birthday money away to start saving for a gravestone.  I took every opportunity to rub her age under her nose.  I was awful. 

If I had an 18 year old sister doing that to me right now....o boy....I don't know what I'd do. 

Sorry, Lois. 

My mind has been pulled in the direction of this milestone alot lately, and I've had a few mini-epiphanies (emphasis on mini) about the subject.  So here's a brief list on the things I'm learning about being on the brink of a new decade.

1.  I don't feel old.  I'd like to say that to my 18-year old self.  30 is not old as mold.  I still feel like a kid when I jump into a pool of water, cheer like a crazy person at a ball game, catch the fast kid in king's base (I love teaching), blow bubbles, chase a lightning bug (for a nephew, of course), drive barefooted, or stand at the top of a mountain or the foot of a waterfall.  I still naturally fall into the little sister category when I'm with my family, which results in a renewed feeling of youth each time.  My heart still feels young.

2.  Life really does get sweeter.  I've thought alot about this concept this past year.  Maybe it's the events of my life during year 29, or maybe it's a natural progression that happens around this age.  I experience joy mixed with pain.  I express laughter intertwined with tears.  I see triumph mingled with suffering.  Perhaps I am a late bloomer and my eyes are only now being opened to what that that abundant life is that Jesus promised to give, but whatever it is, life feels much more valuable to me than it did a few years ago, and even the bitter holds a hint of something sweet. 

3.  Dreams sometimes find new faces.  Had I been asked on my 20th birthday to sketch out where I'd like to be at 30, I am sure it would be wildly different from what my life looks like today.  That picture probably would have included a husband, a couple kids, and a position in a high-action, people-filled, God-centered, ministry on the foreign field.  That's not so much what my life looks like right now.  While I hope that someday my life might look more like that, right now I am living a shadow of that dream, a new face of it.  An incredible support group of friends both far and near, a classroom full of teenagers, and a life that brings me a boatload of opportunites each day to serve others. 

4.  I am not Wonder Woman.  I used to be the strong one.  The one who could sleep on a pile of wood, a bed of rocks, or whatever position necessary.  Now, I can't.  After dealing with reoccurring back issues that make me walk like I'm 80, doctors tell me I have some unnatural curvature of my spine.  I hear words like therapy, treatment, adjustment, and time, this will take time.  I have to be careful how I play sports, lift heavy objects, and even how I sleep, but I'm really grateful for doctors that have a hopeful outlook on treating this issue.  The 20s have also brought some bruising to my heart, and I have learned of my need for others and my desperate need for Jesus more with each passing year. 

5.  Chocolate cake makes it all better.  Oh the gooey goodness of shortening, cocoa, and sugar.  Every problem can be fixed with cake. That is, except for the whole BMI issue. 

16 more days till I take the leap...

Because life is more than bubblegum

Tomorrow morning's Bible class covers the topic of stories.  We all have them.  Some we love to tell; others we long to forget.  Each story centers around decisions we made, either consciously or unconsciously, out of our worldview.

I pulled up my old xanga site and had a jaunt down memory lane as I remembered some old stories in my own neighborhood.  I laughed as I saw pictures, cringed at all the spelling and grammar errors (please, save me from myself!), and reminisced on days gone by, on stories filed away.

I'm living a story right now.  Sometimes it seems all storybook-ish.  Other times it feels more like I'm stuck in the outtakes. 

Funny how perspective fades when you're right in the middle of it. 

Tonight I made myself a latte, turned on an instrumental pandora station, and lesson-planned for my World Lit class tomorrow.  This evening that would have looked like a glamour shot a year or two ago.  my first job...my own latte...wi-fi in a cute little house...

Unfortunately, tonight it mostly felt like work. 

How quickly I forget that life is made of years, which are made of weeks, which are made of days, which are made of hours.  In these hours stories are born, matured, and completed.  In these moments, decisions arise.  Decisions that matter, mostly much more than I think they do.

Doing life with middle schoolers has taught me that very few things stay the same from day to day.  I have no promise of tomorrow. 

But I do have today.  Right here.  Right now.  Those 19 set of eyes reminded me of that this morning.  Soon I will send them out the door for one final time. 

But for today, they're still mine. 

I purpose in my heart to makes these moments count.  To allow the Master Author to pen something worthy.  Something honorable to Him.  Something including low-key evenings of prep.  And yes, something middle-schoolish.